


Remembrancer

by Alethia



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Bets & Wagers, Drinking, Hangover, Lancelot Pushes, M/M, Morning After, Morning Sex, So much drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-08-17
Updated: 2004-08-17
Packaged: 2018-01-10 00:49:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1152819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alethia/pseuds/Alethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Lancelot. I see you’re showing no ill effects of your misadventures last night.”</p>
<p>He perked up at that. “So I did have misadventures. Were they lascivious in nature?” He got a brief flash of drinking, flagon after flagon, some sort of contest and Bors roaring in delight at…something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remembrancer

**Author's Note:**

> Cliche!fic! Originally posted [here](http://alethialia.livejournal.com/88594.html).

_Pain_. Sharp and bright and thrumming through his abused head like an entire army’s battle drums had taken up residence inside his skull.

And he didn’t remember a fight last night. 

Didn’t remember much of anything, actually. Not that there was much room in his head to remember anything, what with all the beating going on.

Lancelot rolled over and buried his face in—something very pleasantly soft. Refused to open his eyes as he just knew how that would turn out. So he squirmed a bit, wondering that his bed felt softer. Sniffed. 

And smelled cleaner. Smelled a lot like Arthur, really.

He stilled, suddenly keenly aware of the presence that raked across his senses, aware that there was someone else in the room. Reached out a hand to connect with something solid and warm and moving, ever so slightly.

Well. This was definitely not his bed.

Muffled laughter let him know exactly who his bedmate was. If it smelled like an Arthur and sounded like an Arthur…

He sighed.

“I’ve been wondering how long it’d be until you figured out I was here. I could have killed you.”

“Shh!” he said, reaching over to Arthur’s general area and clapping a hand against his mouth. Even _that_ hurt his head and he better damn well have had some fun last night.

He spared a moment to be impressed with his aim, though.

Arthur tried to say something and it came out all pleasantly muffled. Lancelot smiled and stretched a bit, feeling brief flares of pain erupt all over his body. Wonderful. He probably got in a brawl last night and got even more bruises than that exhausting campaign had been able to inflict upon him. 

And he didn’t even remember beating the ass that got him into this mess. Pity.

Lancelot slowly opened his eyes, letting them get used to the admittedly low light in Arthur’s bedroom, roaming over familiar belongings before settling on the man himself, looking quite like he’d like to continue the beating.

Too bad Lancelot would have no trouble besting him, even now. And he knew it.

Lancelot smirked in what he hoped was a charming way, amused that Arthur hadn’t yet removed his hand. Arthur’s breath painted little stripes of heat on his palm and Lancelot found himself enjoying the contact, small though it was.

“Arthur. I’m in your bed. Had your wicked way with me, did you?”

A narrowing of amused green eyes into a glare and his arm was effortlessly swept away, falling back to the bed like the dead weight it was.

Really, it took too much concentration to hold it there anyway.

“Lancelot. I see you’re showing no ill effects of your misadventures last night.”

He perked up at that. “So I did have misadventures. Were they lascivious in nature?” He got a brief flash of drinking, flagon after flagon, some sort of contest and Bors roaring in delight at…something.

A raised eyebrow told him he’d surprised Arthur.

“You don’t remember?” Careful, but with a spice of incredulity, like it was impossible that even Lancelot could drink that much.

Granted, he didn’t know it was possible, either. He must have been inspired.

“I remember,” he said. It was possible there was a note of defensiveness to his voice.

Amusement flooded Arthur’s eyes again and Lancelot dropped his head back to Arthur’s obscenely comfortable bed. He shouldn’t have said anything.

“You don’t.”

“I remember drinking, I remember brawling, I remember—” Another brief flash, soft yielding lips, his hands dipping under garments, trailing lazily across firm flesh. “Whoring.”

He looked around. “Where’s the woman, anyway?”

“Ah…”

“Ran off, did she? Ah, well. I’m sure she was well-pleased. It is me, after all.”

Lancelot shifted again and settled back—in Arthur’s bed. He’d never really paid attention to the experience of being in it before. It was—nice. Soft. Of course it would be. Their leader deserved at least that.

Arthur was looking at him—like he’d never really seen him before and it made Lancelot want to squirm away from that intruding gaze. Not that he did. He was who he was and Arthur should know that by now.

Arthur looked away first, unusually quickly, and he cleared his throat in discomfort. Interesting.

“How is Bors?” Lancelot asked, breaking their unplanned silence. He remembered more now—a challenge from Bors, the both of them already swimming with drink. Protestations by Vanora. Arthur laughing.

After that things got a bit hazy.

Must have been a good night, then.

His head was a bit clearer, though Roman workers were still pounding away, building some sort of monument to themselves out of the bone of his skull. Quite rude of them, if you asked Lancelot.

He rubbed his temples. “Ugh. My brain is broken. That hag must have poisoned my drink,” he hissed, trying to rub the pain away. It wasn’t working out so well.

Bemusement appeared on Arthur’s face again, glance going pointedly to the table. Lancelot’s stomach rebelled at the thought. He didn’t think food was such a good idea, come to it.

He looked, relieved to see only a mug of…something.

“Vanora stopped by. Said you might like a bit of her homemade brew. Supposed to work wonders for those who’ve had too much drink.”

He sighed pleasurably. “One of your angels. I knew there was a reason I liked her. Come, bring it to me.” Demanded simply and without artifice. And why was Arthur still sitting around, anyway? 

“Oh, so I am to be your slave now?”

“Lucky if you were,” he said winking, surprised when Arthur looked away again and promptly crawled over him, rising and bringing back whatever magic Vanora was working these days.

He grasped the mug gratefully and quickly swallowed some of it, wincing at the taste and feeling Arthur move to sit beside him on the bed. Feeling his eyes track across his tunic-clad shoulders and—huh. He was still wearing everything from the night previous, only his belt, sword, and boots absent.

Brief glance over the edge of the bed and Arthur did know him well, had settled them in easy reach. Smile of thanks sent to the other man and Arthur inclined his head in acceptance.

He swallowed some more and his displeasure at the act must have showed, for Arthur laughed and shook his head.

“This is foul,” Lancelot said.

“Some would say just deserts.”

He rolled his eyes, pleased to find it didn’t cause nearly so much pain as he would have thought. “Spare me. You’ve had your own wild days.”

“Day, singular. And I never went at it with the exuberance you so readily showed it last night.”

Lancelot grinned. That sounded very much like him. “So, I won, of course. Was there a wager?” He set his mug down on the floor next to the bed, ignoring Arthur’s annoyed glance, and carefully settled back down. His stomach was already feeling calmer, the rolling sensation had gone, thankfully. It reminded him too much of those interminable days on boats and as he wouldn’t have to think of those again for well over a decade, he’d prefer his stomach not act the weakling. 

He would have to find some way to thank Vanora. A devilish smile crept onto his face, he knew, but there were so many fun ways to do it and doubly so if Bors was feeling anything akin to what Lancelot felt.

Arthur watched him with furrowed brow and Lancelot silently cursed his friend’s seriousness. The weight of responsibility fell heaviest on Arthur’s shoulders and the man was determined to let it slowly crush him. It was all very depressing. Lancelot far preferred to mock such things. At least that way he got some enjoyment out of his dismal little life.

He nudged Arthur with his leg, giving him an expectant look. How easily the man lapsed into silence these days. “Well?”

“What?”

“A wager,” he reminded, nudging Arthur again and leaving his leg next to Arthur’s hip, heat soaking through. The contact felt nice and Arthur didn’t complain so it wasn’t like Lancelot had much incentive to _stop_.

“Oh, I…don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember?” he asked dully. It was unlike Arthur just _forget_ things. Important things, like things Lancelot needed to collect.

“It was madness last night.” Lying without really lying and Lancelot needed to remember that trick. But, oh wait. He didn’t care nearly so much about things like honesty as Arthur did.

“Of course it was.” And Arthur was avoiding. Again, unusual. There might have been more to last night than he’d thought.

“So was this woman very beautiful?” he asked, lightness to his tone masking what he didn’t want Arthur to hear underneath.

“You were too drunk for any women last night,” Arthur said, amusement back, rankling. Trust Arthur to so easily touch on that instinctive part of him, the part that rebelled against such criticism.

He pushed that primal need to prove something back down, quashing the thought. Besides, he clearly remembered the spicy tang of flesh on this tongue, a body squirming beneath him. And it wasn’t like Arthur to tell tales.

“ _I_ am never too drunk for women. And _you_ are keeping something from me.”

“Really.”

“And it seems more of a to-do than a little pawing at women.”

“You weren’t pawing at women last night.”

“Then who was it?” And with Arthur’s look, he knew. Like a flash of insight, a shock from above, that inspiration Arthur was always talking about. 

Careful silence and then: “Well.”

Arthur smiled ironically and looked away again, obviously giving Lancelot time to regain his composure. Time he didn’t need.

Wasn’t such a shock, really. Granted, he’d kept himself under control for the most part, but there had been slips. Apparently it wasn’t a good idea to get very, very drunk when Arthur was around. Good to know.

A faint blush had pooled in Arthur’s cheeks and it only served to remind him how very young the other man was, for all his commanding presence.

He just had to say something. He _had_ to. He couldn’t help himself.

“I was that good, huh?” he asked slyly, grinning when Arthur looked over at him, shocked.

“Lancelot…” Arthur began, but he was having none of it. He sat up and slid over to Arthur, hands catching at material, pulling closer, wanting a taste he could remember.

He leaned in and licked at Arthur’s neck, settled onto his lap. And yes, this all felt very familiar, even the slight tensing of thighs beneath him. His mouth dragged down, reacquainting with salt and skin and breathing in Arthur, hands tugging at Arthur’s tunic until he relented, helping until Lancelot could pull it up and toss it away. 

So much skin to explore. Lancelot spared a brief regret for not remembering more, but there was always time to create memories.

Which he happily set about doing, running his teeth along Arthur’s collarbone, hands shaping lean muscle under already marred skin.

He only dimly felt Arthur’s hands clenching at his shoulders when the other man gasped his name. Lancelot dismissed the interruption and returned to sucking on little nipples that had Arthur squirming so delightfully underneath him. 

Arthur’s hand in his hair stopped him and he allowed himself to be pulled up and into a fiery, bruising kiss, much more hunger and desperation there than he would have thought. Kissed like being consumed, like he would disappear if Arthur let him get too far away and the hand in his hair might be hurting but it didn’t even compare to Arthur’s tongue against his own.

Someone mewled and it had Lancelot pulling away with a gasp, scrambling to get his own clothes off as he tried to get Arthur to do the same. Too many limbs too close together and but for luck and _want_ there might have been some serious injuries in their haste.

Lancelot spared a brief thought of thanks before he was sucked into writhing heat, arms and legs straining, trying to grasp onto any sort of hold, get any sort of purchase and finding nothing. Bodies aligned and moving, striving for pleasure, tongues twisted together as completely as they were, neither able to gain any sort of dominance in their rolling.

Gave up when the search for release became more important than their games, and Lancelot easily wrapped his legs over Arthur’s hips and _pulled_ him down, heat spiking between them as they moaned into each other’s mouths.

So much skin and scent and Arthur was liquefying on top of him, melting all over and neither of them could stop, focus of the world narrowing to just this thrusting, this mutual need.

Arthur broke away and buried his head in Lancelot’s neck, gasping out his name and _biting_ into his shoulder, shuddering out warmth to pool between them. 

Pain a shock through his system, stealing breath and tipping Lancelot into an abyss of _stunning_ heat and intensity, floating outside his own body, too much pleasure to be real. And then it was over and he was back underneath Arthur and trying to catch a breath that seemed to have wholly deserted him. 

Lancelot panted for a while, letting muscles fall lax. Eventually he raised his head and laughed at Arthur, boneless above him but still finding the energy to pet Lancelot. His laugh seemed to rouse the other man from contemplations of the less heavenly type and he abruptly stopped stroking Lancelot’s skin.

Too bad. He’d been enjoying that.

Arthur rolled off him and sighed, sprawling without care next to Lancelot, still stunning in his power, even now. They settled into comfortable silence, drifting, Lancelot liking the way their skin would brush every once and again, how the heavy weight of Arthur’s presence contented him.

Lancelot came back after awhile. Arthur didn’t seem inclined to talk but well, Lancelot never did know when to keep his mouth shut.

“So, better or worse?” he asked, smiling easily. Life was good and life in Arthur’s bed? Something he could very easily get used to.

“Neither.”

Lancelot furrowed his brow, thinking that didn’t sound quite right, but Arthur beat him to it. “That’s what I was trying to tell you before you so unceremoniously jumped on me,” Arthur said, affectionate exasperation fully in evidence. “While you made a few exceptional attempts, you went to bed unsatisfied last night.”

Lancelot snorted. “A shame, then. You missed out.”

“Do you think I’m a man who would take someone so clearly out of control into my bed?”

He looked over haughtily. “I can be very convincing.”

Arthur even smiled then, such a shock.

“Tell me the terms of the bet,” Lancelot ordered, not even caring that Arthur was nominally his superior. Such details were so limiting.

He sighed. “I should have known you wouldn’t give that up.” Lancelot grinned unrepentantly and rolled closer, biting playfully at Arthur’s arm. Arthur turned it into a caress, hand sliding over Lancelot’s cheek and Lancelot couldn’t help but turn into it, _feel_ it slide across his skin, down his neck to rest at his shoulder.

“It was semi-public humiliation, of a sort.”

Lancelot said nothing, knowing he would continue. “Terms were set at the beginning, of course. Your task was to maul your fearless leader.”

“Who would be you,” he finished. And laughed. “Who thought up that task?”

“Bors.”

“Bors really doesn’t know me very well.”

“He knows you much better _now_ ,” Arthur said emphatically.

Lancelot snorted in dry amusement. “I suppose I didn’t object, then?”

“No, and as the night lengthened you seemed more interested in finding ways to fulfill that challenge than in drinking Bors under the table. Though, to be fair, you did that, too.”

“What, I pinned you against a wall and had my way with you?”

Arthur laughed. “No, you’re more consistent. You climbed into my lap and set about searching for skin.”

“I thought that felt familiar,” he said dryly.

Arthur looked about ready to start repressing and denying, so Lancelot decided to take the initiative. He rolled over even further, right on top of Arthur, ensuring he couldn’t up and run away. The tension in his muscles telling Lancelot that was exactly the plan.

Good man, though, he only sent Lancelot a mild questioning look. Impressive.

“I was thinking…”

“And I thought your brain was broken.” Well, if Arthur was making jokes maybe this would be easier than he thought.

“I was thinking…we might do this again sometime,” he said softly, finding one of Arthur’s hands and lifting it to his mouth, teeth scraping along the sensitive inside of his wrist, tongue slicking the path.

“Were you.”

“I was.” Hand discarded and Lancelot shifted closer and leaned down, capturing lips with his own and holding them, begging softness from a mouth that could never deny him. Arthur relented and kissed him back, deeper, more urgent, teeth catching at his lower lip.

At least passion wouldn’t be a problem.

Arthur pulled back, and Lancelot rested against him, breathing him in, suddenly thankful for Bors and bets and drinking contests because now he had _this_ and it was infinitely more than he ever thought he’d have. 

He was startled out of his reverie by Arthur’s voice. “I thought as much.”

What was he—oh. Of course. Lancelot grinned. “Good. It’s always easier when we’re in agreement.”

“You mean, when I do what you want.”

Lancelot grinned. “If that’s the way you want to see it,” he said, leaning down again. Who was he to argue anyway?

***

Fin. Feedback is adored.


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